Novel & Cerita Hidden Wrist Blade

She looked back. The twelve were still there. Molten at the front. His chest was bandaged now. White gauze with red seeping through at the edges. Blade's right arm hung in a sling. His fingers were trembling. Abyss's wrist was wrapped in cloth. He braced himself against the wall with his left hand. The others were there too.

As he raised his right hand, he suddenly whipped out a butterfly knife with a sharp blade, stabbing it at Elio's chest. Only a truly ruthless character would pull out a deadly weapon without hesitation. It was not an ordinary switchblade, either, but a butterfly knife that required more skill to handle. "Ah!" A woman screamed involuntarily when she saw the weapon. The scene immediately erupted into chaos. Still, there was no way Elio would be injured by an amateur like that. A chill flashed across his eye, and his hands moved like lightning. With a single grab and twist, he dislocated Dwayne's wrist and rendered him helpless.

One went for his legs, one for his chest, and the third for his head. Rhys was a whirlwind of black fur and iron, but he couldn't cover every angle. I saw the third man pull a hidden wrist-launcher, a trio of poisoned needles aimed at Rhys’s exposed neck. "Rhys, down!" I screamed. I didn't wait to see if he heard me. I threw my secondary knife—a small, balanced throwing blade—with every ounce of strength I had. The steel whistled through the air, catching the attacker in the wrist just as he fired. The needles flew wide, hissing into the snow.

But I was wrong; he has two small blades that are attached to his hands by a leather strap. He’s feinting left and right so fast that it’s hard for me to keep up. The soldier is clearly outmatched. With the flick of the wrist, Zarius' soldier throws his blade into the soldier's chest. The blade misses his heart and gives the soldier enough fury to slice opponents right arm.

The Russian just stared at me, a mixture of emotions on his face that I couldn't decipher. It was then that I finally thought of something. I had nothing with me, not even my jacket with my knife. Then I finally remembered. I had a ring with a small blade hidden inside, so I made the effort to remove the blade from the ring, and when I did, I finally plunged it into the Russian's forearm in a spot I knew would make his fingers move involuntarily and force him to let go.

I thought it’s because she can’t look at him like this, but it’s something else entirely. Carden struggles to move as he barely comes to a lopsided sit, his hand slides out and the tips of his fingers graze my knee, a shiny silver blade hidden beneath his flat palm. I look him dead in the eye as I slide the small weapon up my sleeve the moment Brit screams at me.

“Then you take a weapon! Make sure you can defend yourself if needed!” “I’m going to,” revealing from my other pocket the tiny silver blade Declan had given me before leaving. It had been confiscated from Viktor, edged with silver and intricately carved; it was a small and lethal blade. Easily concealed, Declan had made me promise to keep it on me. Then I painstakingly twisted one small black key with six notches out of the metal loop.

Garrett told me, his massive hand spreading in my direction. The others all followed suit. Warriors who had adopted me into their family, soldiers who had sworn to protect me, all of them offering their trust without understanding what they were getting themselves into. I drew out a small blade from around my waist, one of the only bladed things werewolves used for practical rather than combat purposes. The metal glinted silver in the fading light, and I could have sworn I felt it vibrate with something in my blood. "This might hurt," I warned, then cut the blade across my palm quickly.

"When he does, we don't react. We let everyone in that room see exactly who he is." Varek looked at me for a moment. "You've been planning this since you heard the phone call," he said. "I've been planning this since I woke up," I said. He reached into his jacket. Not a ring. Not anything soft. A thin dark blade. Short and light, the grip wrapped in tape. He took my right hand and pressed it into my palm. "Flat against your arm," he said quietly. "Under the sleeve." I curled my fingers around it. It slid up inside the sleeve and disappeared.

But the handle had weight, and the blade—thin, cheap, with the faint tarnish of something that wanted to be silver when it grew up—flashed dull. He noticed the movement too late. He laughed, mouth red, dismissive, sure he knew the limits of butter knives and women who loved him once. When I touched the blade to the back of his hand by accident, he jerked like I’d put a cattle prod to his wrist. The skin bubbled in an instant welt. He hissed and jerked away so hard he cracked his shoulder on the milk crate. His eyes went wide with an animal’s surprise. “Don’t like that, do you?” I whispered through the tape, the words chewed and ugly and mine.